Desert Mourning
by J. Travis
Summary: Takes place just after Spike has gotten his soul in Africa, and he gets some unexpected help returning home.


Author's Note: This is set in Africa, shortly after Spike gets his soul, post season-six and pre-insanity. Thanks to Linne for editing as always and for the inspiration.

Sharp stone pressed into his naked back, setting the bruises ablaze again. No longer certain how much time had passed, he climbed to his feet and grasped at the filthy walls for support. Hunger, as well as his certain desire to return home, was his body's driving force. Thankfully, it was night again, and that would make Spike's painful trek to the rented SUV possible. He fumbled for the keys in the pockets of his battered and torn jeans. His hand ran over the jagged edges and grasped tightly. The cold metal soothed his ravaged fingers, and it seemed an abomination that he should be allowed any respite from the torture; he deserved whatever horrors he suffered. When he returned to Sunnydale he'd offer his life to Buffy. She deserved to be the person to kill him.

The vehicle's windows were already covered, but the daylight was coming fast and would force Spike into hiding only because he was desperate for sleep. Africa wasn't known for temperate weather. He hoped what blood he'd taken with him remained somewhat fresh. If it had spoiled, he'd have to hunt in order to feed, and the thought of hunting even a mouse left him squeamish after his ordeal. Perhaps luck would be on his side; he almost laughed at the absurdity of that thought. Slipping into the driver's seat, the car cradled him as the cave floor hadn't, but comfort wasn't what he sought, simply food. The cooler, ice long melted inside, sat in the back seat waiting. Spike slowly opened it and prepared for the rancid smell of rot to touch his senses. No, it seemed the blood was still usable. Stale, thick as snot, and coating every tastebud, he gagged over the texture and taste of the barely decent food. It was better than nothing. At least some of his wounds would begin to heal, he thought, crawling into the back of the vehicle and passing out for another long sleep.

He woke just before dawn. The cave's cool darkness called to Spike, but he knew going back wasn't an option, and the demon who presided over that little space would likely tear him apart for returning. His soul, not the expanse of decency and goodness he'd expected, shimmered within his mind, pulling, screaming, begging and squealing at him to just let go. It seemed William wasn't particularly interested in going back to Sunnydale, only in death. If Spike had felt anyone but Buffy should kill him, he might have stepped into the sunlight as the last traces of purplish night left the sky. No, he deserved punishment, hell and, for once, it seemed his own demon agreed. It was rather like having multiple personalities. The vampire he'd been seemed to argue with William who was already bickering with the demon who was snarking away at the person Spike would've liked to become. He had to wonder how his grandsire coped with the overwhelming cacophony.

As the morning stretched into afternoon, the vehicle became an oven which normally wouldn't have bothered Spike, but it was too much like feeling the flames he expected to erupt from the Hellmouth lick at his body. He vaguely recalled news stories, stories that hadn't mattered to him in the past, of young children left to bake in hot cars by abusive parents. One such article had evoked tears from Joyce as she read the young girl involved had pulled all of her the hair from her head in the sweltering and vicious heat before dying. Spike sympathized with both Joyce and the unknown child now. Must've been a horrible death for a human. When night came, he was grateful to find himself capable of driving, and he headed toward the city as quickly as possible.

He couldn't remember the name of the city despite having been there. Obviously, it was a town set up with visitors in mind since it boasted hotels, nightclubs and several restaurants catering to the willing to spend tourist. The crowds were mixed with as many white faces as black, and Spike recalled thinking when he'd first arrived how strange it was to find a mystical wish granting demon so close to the African equivalent of a fucking tourist trap in Florida. All around him, bodies pulsed and thrummed to the constant beat of the city, and it was unbearable. The vampire found himself wishing for anyone familiar-even Harmony. He sighed and headed to the small motel he'd initially checked into, perhaps a week ago at most, but he'd paid for a three week stay. At least that much he remembered.

Fumbling for his room key, Spike realized he was crumpling to floor and unable to catch himself. Exhaustion, lack of food and an overwhelming sense of sadness mixed with guilt left him unable to crawl to his knees. His keys slid from his hand to rest silently beside him. "Like dead metal bugs," he whispered. When the voice of a woman spoke to someone in an unidentifiable language, Spike wasn't even curious enough to look up from the floor. Perhaps she was a doctor because he felt hands gently lift and carry him to his rented bed. He slept for two days, sometimes dreaming, sometimes screaming but always tended by the mysterious stranger. When he woke, he found her watching him from the only chair the room offered.

"You're awake. I've brought you fresh blood," she said, to his astonishment. "Oh, yes, I know what you are. Your kind and mine are two sides of the same coin, but I'd never have believed that one of you would come in search for your soul."

She was around thirty-six, long, lean, very fit and power emanated from her entire being. Her dark auburn hair was pulled back in a long braid, and she wore light khaki pants, a white T-shirt and sturdy leather boots. If Spike hadn't known better, he would've sworn she was the female counterpart to Indiana Jones, but the look in her eyes said she wasn't a Nazi fighting archeologist. Of course, World War II had ended decades ago, and Indiana Jones had never really existed. His brain was so confused.

"Who are you?" His voice sounded raspy like a metal file pulling across a worn padlock.

"The person saving your ass, Spike."

His eyebrow raised curiously, "Do I know you?"

She laughed lightly, but there was a deadliness to her mirth, "You hunted me for a long time-then it just stopped. I wondered what happened to you, Slayer Killer." Once again, power shone from her eyes, and Spike realized who this woman reminded him of most-Buffy.

"You're a slayer?"

"Not the One and Only, at your service."

"How?"

She laughed a bit before replying, "Buffy Summers doesn't hold the corner market on returns from the dead. But my watcher never bothered to inform The Council I'd been revived at the hospital." She smirked at the surprised vampire, "I was allowed to live a real life. For years, I figured you'd still hunt me anyway, but I guess you bought the stories too."

Suddenly, Spike was assaulted with the memory of a green-eyed and statuesque girl, a girl he'd fought only once. Their battle ended when a gangly young man had run Spike down with his car, opened the door and screamed at the girl to get in immediately. It must've been the Watcher. Later, he was told that Slayer had been killed in a car accident, and he and Drusilla had celebrated her death while regretting he hadn't murdered her. The streets of St. Louis ran with champagne and blood that night, and the memory forced Spike to cringe. Dru had killed her parents.

"You've come to kill me, then?"

The Slayer, no longer a sixteen year old girl, laughed. "Noooo," she drawled the word lazily, "you're more fun alive, Spike, soul and all."

"What's your name?"

"It was Belinda, but I haven't used that in years. I go by Emma these days, but the locals around here call me She Who Brings Death and Justice-it sounds prettier in their language."

"Why didn't you kill me?"

"After my parents were murdered, I drove off a bridge and tried to kill myself... Almost succeeded too. Then Thomas, my watcher, simply called The Council and lied. He retired as heir to the family money at the ripe old age of twenty-five, and we got married when I was older. He was killed two years ago. Never had any children," she continued, "For a long time, I thought about killing you and Drusilla, but Thomas didn't want me back on the radar." She smiled warmly now at Spike, "Then I found out about the prophecies, a new vampire with a soul. Of course, yours is a bit different from the one Angelus has."

"He never wanted his soul," Spike muttered quietly.

"Nope, you remember that when the time comes, darlin'," the words were said in all seriousness. "You need to get home, William the Bloody, and I guess I'm going to help. That Hellmouth of yours is about to explode in a lot of screaming and death, and Buffy's going to need you."

"Are you going with me?" An escort home would be too weird for words, but she'd be a little welcome too.

"There's work to do here," her voice was filled with regret and sadness, "my going...it won't help you or Buffy.

"Enough tales for one night, Spike, it's time to drink up and head out. You'll take a plane from here to England. It's not much of a private plane, but Thomas made sure I had what I needed before he died. The pilot is a good one, and he understands your...delicate nature," she grinned at her own words. "After that, you'll board a cargo plane I hired just for getting you to New York City, and you'll take the car I've arranged for you and drive to Sunnydale. It's been modified for daytime driving."

"Come with me," Spike had never begged anyone but Drusilla and Buffy, and now here he was afraid to travel alone. Emma shook her head no.

"Thomas is buried here, and my life is here. Now that I know you really did it, it's given me some hope for the future. Get your things; it really is time to leave."

She drove him to a large estate, beautifully landscaped to fit in with the natural order rather than detract from it, with a tasteful and simple manor presiding over the grounds. In the back, acres of land stretched endlessly into the desert night. As promised, a private plane waited ready for Spike, and he marveled that anyone would be decent to him knowing what he was. Especially this woman he'd fought once, bitterly, and whose parents were dead because of his sire. She didn't seem to hold any of it against him, and it gave him a fraction of hope. If she could forgive him, maybe Buffy could too.

"Buffy isn't going to believe there's another one like her," Spike said suddenly.

"She won't because I'm asking you not to tell her. Rupert Giles is her Watcher, correct? He's not one of The Council's dogs anymore, but I seriously doubt he'd refrain from reporting that Belinda Damien is still alive. Then they'd demand to know why I didn't help them all these years...why Thomas covered up my death," she sighed, green eyes filling with tears, "When you tell them your story, please leave me out of it?"

It was the please that made him willing to hide her secret. "Sure, pet, and thanks for the help," Spike shook her hand, and she pushed him toward the first step home.

From the plane, he watched the small figure recede into darkness, and he wondered if she'd been real. He remembered the girl, of course, one doesn't easily forget battles with Slayers, and he vividly recalled Drusilla's brutal killings, but Spike still couldn't believe that she'd somehow managed to survive. His past was weighing heavily on him as he reached for his cigarettes and found a rumpled letter in his jacket.

"William," it read, "let go of the past-forgive yourself. It's not the soul that makes me forgive what you did, but your choice to get it. When an old priestess told you me you would come, I didn't believe her predictions for a long time. She was so sure and said to me I'd lose nothing by finding out for myself. I'd been waiting in that desert for you for two weeks... I admit I'd almost given up when I finally saw you approach the cave. It restored some of my faith in people in general, and if a demon can make a choice for the love of a human, I suppose it means there's some hope left for the rest of us. Your soul isn't the key. It's your willingness to make the right choices regardless of the pain you might cause yourself. Take care and hope it works out. Belinda Damien, Vampire Slayer." Spike lit his cigarette and folded the note, intending to save it, when he changed his mind and held the lighter to it instead. 'Made a promise to a lady,' he thought. Sunnydale would be waiting for him, and Buffy still might choose to kill him, but at least he'd had one, good day.


End file.
